I’m indebted to the Oxford Dictionary of Quotations, 4th Edition 1996

Ab Imo Pectore

Ab imo pectore,
Blandae mendacia linguae,
Cadit quaestio,
Desunt cetera.
Est modus in rebus.
Faber est quisque fortunae suae,
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
Hic finis fandi,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
Jacta interdum est alea,
Labuntur et imputantur.
Magni nominis umbra,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
Pallida mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Res ipsa loquitur.
Solvitur ambulando…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
Urbi et orbi,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.


From The Bottom Of The Heart

From the bottom of the heart,  the falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
The question drops, the rest is wanting.
There is a balance in all things, every man is the creator of his own fate.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.
Let there be an end to talking, for who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
The die is sometimes already cast,
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
No one can claim to know all things,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor and rich men’s houses;
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
It’s so obvious, it speaks for itself.
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
And to all the world,
There’s no turning back.

Ab Imo Pectore / From The Bottom Of The Heart

Ab imo pectore,
From the bottom of the heart,
Blandae mendacia linguae,  
The falsehoods of a smooth tongue,
Cadit quaestio,
The question drops,
Desunt cetera.
The rest is found wanting.
Est modus in rebus,
There is a balance in all things,
Faber est quisque fortunae suae.
Every man is the creator of his own fate.
Gigni de nihilo nihilum, in nihilum nil posse reverti.
From nothing, nothing can come, into nothing, nothing can return.  
Hic finis fandi,
Let there be an end to talking,
Interdum stultus bene loquitur?
For who can tell when a fool speaks the truth?
Jacta interdum est alea.
The die is sometimes already cast,
Labuntur et imputantur.
A moment comes and goes, and is laid to our account.
Magni nominis umbra,
From the smallest shadow to the mightiest name,
Nec scire fas est omnia,
No one can claim to know all things,
Omne crede diem tibi diluxisse supremun,
I believe that every day that dawns may be my last,
Pallida  mors aequo pulsat pauperum tabernas regumque turres;
Pale death knocks impartially at both poor man and rich men’s houses;
Quid rides, mutato nominee de te fibula narrator,
Don’t laugh, change the name and the story is yours,
Res ipsa loquitur.
It’s so obvious, that it speaks for itself.
Solvitur ambulando…
As the concept of motion is proven by walking…
Tempora mutantur, nos et matamur in illis.
So in time all things change, as we must, in time, all change.
Urbi et orbi,
And to all the world,
Vestigia nulla retrorsum.
There’s no turning back.


r10.1

‘The Problem to be explored: The Problem of Abundance:’


Nothing lasts anymore, nothing seems meaningful anymore, nothing feels wanted anymore,

Except for the already lost and gone, and can’t be retrieved.

It seems everything is given without being asked for.

You’ll only notice something when it's not there:


Perhaps:


“My cup must be empty once again in order to receive.”


I have suddenly forgotten where I have just heard

This being said in a prayer but I think it is the key, the answer

To the needless and senseless suffering of our herd

But, its truth stuck with me, and I too wonder


I too think I must be silent again to allow the singing once more

I too think I must become the void to welcome the replenishing wave

Of excitement

Of the need to climb while weighed down by life’s

Various impossibilities, and mystery

And not float thus, away

Fallen to the what Milan Kundera

Described perfectly in his title:

“The Unbearable Lightness of Being”


Our cup runneth over, and we are left to wander

With the grains of time, and consciousness

Escaping through our desperate fingers

As we rush towards a mirage of permanence

While scorching our feet on the sand and deserts  

Burnt by an ever more present sun

And the tedium of golden overabundance


Ancient wisdom dictates that:


“What is useful is not the cup,

But the void that’s ready to receive

The already full need no more

And its further worth deceives”


“Reunion of too long must not last

Separation is inevitable

Separation will always be short-lived

Reunion is unavoidable”


Now, that’s some wisdom to heed

The Union of Lovers will need




‘The Problem of Too Much Goodness’




We are always questioning the Problem of Evil

While too few words lend to the Terror of Good


Everything is living longer and longer

Yet

Everything is dying quicker and quicker


It really is “the best of times”

It really is “the worst of times”

While

Our flesh savours a never before longevity

Our soul is aging rapidly at an alarming rate


This is A Tale of Two Realities:


Where Time is both a child

With an almost non-existent attention span

And the world its vast endless sandbox

A toy is too quickly loved and so immediately

Discarded

Where Time is also senile

With an almost non-existent memory reserve

With the ancient past constantly retold in nostalgia

And the immediate events of rapid currents

Dissipated


There are still so much hunger and terror in

The modern world

Of course, the well-fed, warless, and unmarked

are being overlooked


But there is a hidden, yet imminent gloom

A spectre hanging above the peaceful and full:




‘The Problem of the Need to be Desired’




We are beings made with one innate desire

To climb, to reach a height ever higher

And one day

Above all


Throughout history,

There has always been way too much

Obstacles

For the mass to reach the summit

And now,

It seems that the summit itself is built

By a stack of the masses

So many of us are great

That none of us is great

Therefore, so quickly forgotten

And replaced by others in

Time


Speaking of time,

Or rather, our conscious

Awareness of change

It seems to be overused,

Weary and

DYING

As a dying old man in mind

Resembles a stubborn child

Our Collective Temporal Consciousness

Is thus

So forgetful like a senile being

And

Losing interest so quickly like an infant


Our cup, our mind is so full

That not only our flesh has become

That of gluttons complaining the

Blandness of an abundance of food

Our soul is also yearning for the

Quiet performance and desirability

Only a lack of supply could supply


So, in effect, GOODNESS

Or WELLNESS

Have somehow oversupplied

Itself till

It is almost worthless to

Some



What is there to reach

If so many have already found

The Summit of Everything?

That we are among the masses

Again?

And, what about those that have

Risen above THE MASS

So early in their life

That to them, there is only space

To fall?


In the past,

We were all so close to the pit

The Pit of Darkness

The Pit of Death

In our climb

That we hold on to every branch

For dear life

No matter how many stones

Fall on us

We look down upon the void

And the black

Abyss

And will always

Sink our nails deeper

Into the earth

Just to stay alive

And still,

To no avail

So quickly,

We all fall

To pitied, and

Dearly treasured and mourned

Demise


And,

Now,

For the hurt

And the healed

And the unmarked

Life marches on mercilessly

Indifferent to us

The bodies crawling and crouching

Upon the desert of abundance

Row upon row

Chased by the sandstorm

That will soon catch up to us

And sweep over all


Where will it take us,

And what before then?


What would cure and stop

This perpetual climb that will

Always place those on top

At the bottom of this crushing hill




The Possible Solutions:




‘How will we quench the thirst of Height?’


We did not witness THE BIRTH OF TIME

We cannot halt THE AGING OF TIME

We cannot know what comes after

THE DEATH OF TIME

But we desperately need a constant climb


Here, we see the Gates to Two Routes


One leading towards the Tangible

Garden of Men

One leading towards the Unseeable

Temple of Worship


There is no right or wrong way to either

However, how you spend your time

Within each

Will determine your plight during  

The time before the True Flight


Pace yourself in your walk through

The Garden of Men

Though there is an abundance of fruits

You must calculate and ration

Your own sustainable share of

Good and Evil

Enjoyment and Suffering

So you don’t exhaust the reserve

Or become weary till nausea

Of the sweetness of being


If you must seek to rise up above all

Your climb must be timed till the very end

Where you will never be crushed by the fall

On the Rota Fortunae, before you inevitably land


The Supply and Demand of Good and Evil

Must be balanced even if by the hands of men

Lest the world turn to well-rested upheaval

When even gold is as abundant as sand


Then, there is the Pave to the Promised Land

Where lost souls of ****** hunger find

Their means to an end, their helping hand

Where fulfilled bodies of lost souls and minds

Pleads to have their invisible suffering end


I used to think that Grace lives in humility

But I see even the Truth appeals to the nature,

Foolish frailty and vanity of all women and men

How do you tell the beings of imminent demises

That this earthly supply and demand of status

Is worthless in the end in a paradise without ends

Where there is no fall for a fear to plummet and land

But to say the weakest of earth

Must be the strongest of heavens

The least of the timely and impermanent possessions

Will be the most in the place after the ultimate ascension


Not to imprison our desire for greatness

But to set it free and follow the lofty dove and olive branch

Knowing that the great height is achieved by humility

To take the fall and suffering and rise in the Eternal Land




Conclusion:




The painful truth is,

And truth must hurt through the bones,

And ache seasonally to not be forgotten

There must be a Supply and Demand of Good and Evil

By our humble minds or divine hands

For honesty to be wanted, and prized

And not worthless like the ocean sand

Lest we become weary of virtue and crave for its end


There are solutions for all,

For those who put faith in life

And

For those who put faith in an afterlife


Simply, though,

It is ever difficult

Just to pace your climb

Either to reach the summit at the end of your life

Or just to leave the height to the ever lofty place without time.

Where you’ll never fall to a late demise

And be crushed by the Rota Fortunae

Where even the stars would envy

The brilliance of your

Light

has spring arrived
already?
i brace myself
and wait-
boughs bent  and
naked.

but, there are no
fluttering cherry blossoms
here, nor golden
nightingales.

i brace myself against
promises of gods
and false prophets
shivering in the wind.

cede fortunae,
they say to me.

i was destined
for this.

I

When we are still combating the problem of evil
With our vicious guns and metals of empathy
An invisible enemy much more clever and stealthy
Has been sneaking behind us
Suffocating us with the suddenly plenty
On this battlefield of seeking

We seem to be caught in between
Two grotesque foes, but are we really?
The gloomy autumn sky is covered with change
Perhaps we judged too early, unclearly-
The red leaves fallen with grace of leisure
Have obscured their countenance, and we see
Only a tattered fool holding a scythe of nothing
And a soldier looming with righteous perfection
Yet, perhaps behind their foliage masks
The fool has his brow raised with love and longing
Cherishing his tool for harvesting
While the soldier with his bullets ever ready
Smirks with an air of violence
Perhaps we have failed to distinguish
The unwanted, cleverly disguised humble friend
From the well dressed yet poisoned with greed, foe

II

Where I come from we used to send
The youth not to the land of plenty and above us
But to help the poor, those who after hard work
On the land, lie beneath a clear sky full of stars
Unwounded by the pale light polluting the cities
With nothing but the vast dome of possibility
The moon and specks lighting up nothing
But a heart full of hopes, love, and dream

Now we climb and climb
Till the new sprouts are already at the peak
Or they are struggling under the shadow
Of the giant trees
Unable to find higher climes
Or
Unable to break free from this lack of oxygen
Of the giant canopy of already achieved greatness

III

The History of the Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire
Was not supposed to be experienced by us
In a couple of generations, in a couple of decades

And the speed of the waves of boom and bust
Of our stability and the longevity of great things
Is only getting faster and faster
In this ocean of constant rise and falling
In this new age
We lift up the logs above us so quickly
And then let them drown so rapidly
We are more like volcanic rocks
With so many holes floating, to ask to be filled
And when fulfilled, drown as we fill, purposeless
And empty

IV

Youth in both poverty and idleness craves for unrest
But those on top should never be opposed with
Proud antagonism
With cries of illusive victory the restless rush towards
The king who tied himself to the top rung of
The wheel fortunae
Who is yet unaware where his inertia leads
Till his destined demise as it turns
To lift up the newly rich
And the new enemy
The vicious cycle of wanting to be above all
When the unwanted truth is glad humility

V

The oak trees stable at its roots, undefeated
Sends us in leaves and birds chirping
A warning to heed that we are losing our depth
In our growth and rooting
For we have rarely seen the valley empty
Yet with all the space to fill with everything
And now live and dream on a slopeless plain
Some with it all and unable to hold anything
Some struggling to breathe under the shades
We are all waning, waning
For our fingers had never dug through the earth of life
With the desperation of the fear of being swarmed
By the dark clouds of timely locusts
Yet,
These wizened words are being scoffed
For being too connected to the past

Are we proposing to cut off the rope
Connecting us to the very beginning
Just so we could get faster to the end
To the depth of this pit
Where no traveler would truly return
Without the past guiding
And we will fall again and again
Ever repeating

VI

I was filled with guilt and despair
That while people are still with next to nothing
With no luxury and sometimes not even family
That when others try to bring them necessities
I can sit in cozy idleness writing poetry
Yet filled with nothing but shame and the empty
In a world less and less occupied with reading
Why I must be a poet sole and wholehearted

And when the missionaries
Send the doves through the screen
Asking for awareness and money
To support these bodies with nothing
I was suddenly filled with hopeless shame and pain
For only one thought echoed from the words said to me
"They have very little material things, yet they seem to be really happy"
And that was the way it used to be
That the suffered and now living with peace
Seems to recall with loving longing
With great sorrow and gladness, I ask you
Is it really monstrous to say they are in a better place than we
They have the most important things
Love, hopes, and dreams
And the nothing waiting to and could be
Filled with anything
While our shaded and sheltered youth
While we hold our cups full
Filled with useless glamorous materials of our own
Or
Constantly poured out for others to keep
Wailing for something more
And lasting

Conclusion:

At the core of our ever-hungry souls
We only really needed one thing:
To be filled with something.

Hopefully more permanently,
But nothing of materialism, or even rationalism
Last more than
A mirage of permanency
Even the century tree of sunset dunes
Eventually sets as whispering dust into the sand
And even the wisest man fades away
Into the senile body whose soul
Has already bid farewell
To this temporary land

I sought and sought
And only found that  
The Word is true
Only Love transcends time and space
The embrace between two condensed hearts
Of pure longing could exert
The gravity
And gravitational time dilation
Of such self-forgetful density
That would wrap entire fabrics of reality
Around us, immersing us, with brief
Merciful revelations and trials
Of the unfathomable
Eternity.

am i really that bad?
punish me with all i deserve
all the sins i preserve
please, be mad
i've hurt you and
i am dizzy all the time
spill the content of this land
my galaxy intertwined mind

nothing is right
can't collect the strings of my mind

i am to do whatever you say
and i know i've been bad
but the world is so sad
incomparable to your eyes gray

i'm not myself any longer
i tried to be stronger
but a mere walker can't overwalk fate
when standing before hell's gate

blurry, the clouds are so blurry
i try to walk them but i keep falling
destiny's eyes keep rolling
Fortunae's flurry

i keep rushing into things
i keep falling into abeyance
i keep thinking of my old wings
i keep noticing your absence

my skin's not bruised enough
for you to forgive, is it?
my heart's not rough
with sadness it is lit

don't come near
but don't leave me
a single shed tear
isn't enough to see

so, please, punish me with all I deserve,
all the sins I preserve,
a mere walker can't over walk fate
when standing before hell's gate

somewhere in the woods
a wolf is singing his lonsome song
to the moon changing his moods
a love story, thousand of years long

i get closer as i listen
set off green balloons to the galaxy
filled with nothing but fallacies
a glimpse of hope alighten

is this a dream?
is it a nightmare?
because, i know it can seem
like the green balloons are
filled with faults and cries
but success is born from failed tries

so, will we ever bloom?
all i ever think of's my doom
because my soul is black,
because i can never go back.